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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598979">every step of the way</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro'>bee_bro</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Jonathan Sims, Boyfriend Is Impressed, Canon-Typical Entities, Comfort, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Fluff, Jon's being a little existential so Martin provides exceptional comfort, M/M, Mentioned canon character deaths, Misuse of Entity Powers To Impress Your Boyfriend, Monster!Jon, Post MAG160, Tickles, author takes the apocalypse very lightly, domestic!, i ignore season 5 though, in the apocalypse!, jon...small...can be carried....., moth related mods, warning for mild swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:33:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's very difficult to Know so much when you Understand so little.</p>
<p>Martin argues that it's a slow process and shows Jon coin tricks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>292</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. real magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so i'll be updating this with chapters ranging from an exploration of dating all the way to experimenting with jons powers as they work through the stress of it all together. not plot-heavy, im just vibin, come vibe with me.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><div>
  <p>Martin drifts towards the sometimes-living room where the beginnings of a monologue can be heard. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon's voice is soft, Martin only catches the latter part of a sentence: "the inherent need to push for one extreme or another." Jon stands in the middle of the room as if suddenly pinned down with thoughts mid-walk, "Why aim to tip the scales in one's own favor when the midpoint stasis is what's most serene?" It's quieter outside now. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He goes on, "The Unknowing. The Watcher's Crown. Two sides, same coin of what can be understood. Why insist on landing with a specific side up? Why must one <em>Be</em> more than the other?" Jon casts a confusing shadow, face similarly shrouded, the perils of having no consistent light source, "Why not let it spin forever in harmony? Neither's the better. Right?" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin stands in the doorway and wonders if this is a dialogue-able situation or if Jon's swimming again and won't hear. Decides trying won't hurt, "I suppose for each... their standard of that stasis is in direct opposition of the other. Clowntown likes the unknowing's extreme and voyeurism-fans like the knowing. It's for us that the middle-ground can be considered charming."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon looks up and there's no glow in his eyes, eyes, eyes, only the insatiable exhaustion of reflectory insomnia. "Martin." He looks up at the ceiling briefly, as if startled by a noise, then back down, "do you... Are you biased? The Unknowing.... The Great <em>Knowing....</em> Both are... bad. Yes? You have to... Know both are bad. I know both are bad. I know. Are you biased though?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin feels himself frown, mind snapping to such titles as "backup-archivist" that have been draped on him with little concern. Eye-affiliated, Lonely-aligned, Web-whatever. No ties to the stranger. Hard to be impartial.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon continues, "Do you allow yourself to be? I don't know. I hated the Unknowing. It was disgusting. Repulsive. I hated it." He blinks heavily, "This isn't... great either...but...." Jon's never been a good enough liar, "I hate one more than I hate the other. <em>I'm</em> biased." He frowns, "Does that mean I... Like it then?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin cuts in, voice as even as he can keep it, anchor at sea, "Yes I'm biased. But I think there's three options here. I'm biased towards the middle ground. The non-apocalypse related middle ground. Cause before I got all tangled with whatever entity, I was human. For a long time." He shrugs, "Maybe shorter than I marked on my fake birth certificate but... You know, I'd grown up cooking to stay sustained instead of letting a dark god keep me running. So... I'm biased towards the human pick."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon watches him from the middle of the room.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Is that still an... option? For me? Martin?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What have you been for longer? A twig-person carrying too many books or a twig-person with infinity access to Lovecraftian Wikipedia carrying too many recorders?" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin can tell this triggers Jon's Beholding and is glad, as you can't run from the truth if it's disposed unto you by all-seeing hands. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon stops going fuzzy around the edges, "The uh, former."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Cool," Martin shrugs, "You can be a multi-bespectacled cryptid in normal-London much more freely than you can in nightmare-London anyway. You can at least go outside and scare people in that first one. Here all you do is mope," He smiles to really make sure Jon doesn't misinterpret this as anything but good-humored jab. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon looks a bit torn between smiling along or berating Martin about the contents of said dig, settles on an uncertain smile, a small nod. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's supposed to be the <em>Knowing</em>, now, but there's... still so much I don't understand." Jon watches Martin approach and unfolds himself a bit from the rather crooked posture he'd ended up in, leaning into an open-arm embrace.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yeah, yeah, knowing and understanding are far too different, though. You try reading an article on fixing folder-write permissions for bootlegged programs. A whole lot of information and nothing to do with it." Martin rests his chin on Jon's head as Jon burrows into the hug and hides his face with a small sigh. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Can't relate, I can tell you about folder write permissions right now. Linux? Mac?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin laughs, jostling Jon by accident, "No thanks, I'll surely receive the information but I will <em>refuse</em> to understand it." Martin's giggles quieten and he sobers just a little, not relinquishing his hold on Jon but straightening a bit. It must be prominent enough, as Jon undigs himself from the hug and looks up with worry.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Mm?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No, no, I just realized Peter's really rubbed off on me. Or maybe it was the Lonely... I'd had to google more computer malfunction questions in the last few months than in my entire life..." Martin frowns, then smiles back down at Jon, "I had to explain to him that different email platforms existed, not just hotmail. Man was appalling near a computer.... I wonder if it's a side effect of the Lonely." </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What, un-remembering how to type?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin scrunches his face up sarcastically, "Boo-hoo, what will I do when I forget where the keyboard on my phone is? Write poetry on the walls?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon darts his eyes at the cabin's dark wood and squints, letting it go unsaid that neither have used their phones since the crowning.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin rocks them gently, "Don't try to understand everything, must be an awful lot of information in that old greasy noggin of yours now, might actually make your eyes pop out. All of them."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon attempts to duck his head away from Martin's face, suddenly very self-conscious. "Yeah and what other options are on the table?" Jon squawks as Martin huffs air into his ear, not letting him wriggle away, nuzzling his temple and forehead.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"One thing at a time," Martin feels Jon erupt in goose-skin, squirming. He finally picks Jon up amidst protests and bops around a little bit, "Have anything small and easy and solvable you don't understand that would make you feel better if we unraveled like, right now?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon, a man not immune to tickles, vehemently shakes his hand, trying to stifle laughter, hands flapping around, face momentarily clean of worry-lines and replaced with crows feet and a breathless smile.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Really? Nothing?" Martin tuts and breathes out against Jon's neck on purpose, sending more goosebumps across his arms, then poking Jon's side, "Nothin??"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh- oh my god okay- okay fine, put-" wheeze "-put me down, I have- uh," he finally swallows down his laughter. Martin's stopped tickling him and simply holds, yet not setting Jon down. "I... I don't understand how you do that coin trick. I know you disappear the coin but I don't know how."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin grins, "Okay! We need a coin for that... Where's a coin?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon briefly goes blurry, making Martin's arms and chest buzz akin from bloodloss where he's holding him. Jon snaps back into it quickly though, unfolds an arm from where he's had them tucked against Martin and points.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin takes them over to the kitchen and finds a coin in a cupboard. He had not left a coin there.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Okay, this will ruin the whole trick but I also suppose you can just Behold any sleight of hand ever, so, might as well." Martin sets Jon down onto the counter. "Alright, watch my hands." He rolls his sleeves up, "I'll even go difficult mode, no sleeves to hide it in."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon claps politely.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Now, as a boy, I'd do magic tricks for my mother, and you'd preface all this-" Martin twirls the coin of a country he doesn't know around his fingers, "By saying it is, of course, real magic. Abracadabra, that stuff." He palms the coin a few times from one hand to another, just muscle memory, not the main trick. "And it's always just clever hand moves." Martin lifts his hand with the coin resting on his palm, " But." Then he flips his hand. The coin does not fall and nothing hits the floor, it is gone. He demonstrates his empty palm, spreading his fingers, "But this time, I am in a position to say it's magic. And not be lying."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Excuse me?" Jon looks at the floor where the coin did not land, then at Martin. "How'd you palm it in plain sight?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I may or may not have been abusing the Lonely by vanishing coins into it as a very lazy magic trick. May or may not have. I will not specify which." Martin shrugs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon stares at him, a bit owlish (blushing, very cute), then there's a whispery laugh on his lips and he goes to clap again, "God, the Lukases would be so mad at you... Horrible, I hate it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Hey, the Lonley sucks but it's like wasting a whole empty room in a house cause you don't like the paint job."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"And cause the paint job gives you depression."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Touche." Martin reopens the kitchen cabinet to see a new, different coin in there. Reverse piggy bank of a situation. "I don't want to set foot in there but I'll send Peter's corpse as many coins as I need to to impress my crush with shitty magic."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Aw, you have a crush on me, that's embarrassing." Jon breaks out in another blush despite the jab.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We're dating," Martin snickers, "Did you know memes before becoming an avatar of the Eye or do they just come to you as universal knowledge now?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No comment. And you can't call it shitty magic, since, well, it really is... uh... paranormal-related." Jon smiles softly, swinging his legs, feet knocking gently into the counter, "And I like it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Eeeeh, that's what makes it shitty, cause it's not sleight of hand. You know what's impressive?" Martin lifts his hands, "Without cheating, where's the coin now? Have you been paying attention?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon immediately frowns at Martin's very empty hands. "This is ridiculous. I was. I was paying attention. Did you vanish it?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Not into the Lonely," Martin shrugs with a smile, "somewhere a bit more interesting." He reaches over to Jon's head and retrieves the coin from behind Jon's ear. It's worth the way Jon's eyes sparkle in a very amused, very human way. "That's what cool magic looks like. The Lonely isn't cool magic but <em>wow</em> is it convenient."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yeah, fuck the Lonely." Jon accepts the coin when Martin hands it to him. "Thankes."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Now you both Know and Understand the admittedly very anticlimactic coin trick. It also happens to be the only one I'll ever explain," Martin smiles and shuffles a bit closer, "All the real ones will remain strictly confidential to the Blackwood head and the Blackwood head only." Martin rests his hands on Jon's knees, who's human-temperature today. "One step at a time." It's the rare comfort of a time that's come to prey.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon examines the coin, "Alright, Martin."</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. discretely</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is self indulgency for me and my aching aching joints<br/>am I taking the apocalypse too lightly in this? maybe. that's why its fan 'fiction'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>What's the downright worst is that Jon does not know if the painful tug of muscle in his lower back is courtesy of the Flesh or just his very unhelpful, very badly kept body. The Eye is surprisingly useless too and leaves Jon awkwardly knuckling at his back and moving around only if strictly necessary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You'd suppose, with no need for tea refills, food, and therefore bathroom breaks, one would actually never need to leave their room. This would indeed be the case if you were not Jonathan Sims, a man(?) at full tilt smitten with someone in another room. Jon reshuffles his tapes, now by minutes rather than alphabetically, and then decides to make his presence very known to Martin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands up off the ground through a succession of rather crablike positions and hobbles to the living room where Martin is digging through the floorboards, sleeves rolled up. There's a disjointed and very eye-catching pile of yarn by his knee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances up, "Hey, Jon," then sits back on his haunches, replacing the semidetached floorboard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's, um, that?" Jon approaches him, eyeing the rare splotch of bizarre color the yarn sprawls over the floor. He notices two knitting needles nearby.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin shrugs, "Looks like you're not the only one that the Web's been sugar-daddying."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please never say that again."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" Martin stands up, holding his new craft supplies at a careful distance, "You don't like me pointing out our mutual sugar daddy, the Web? The Fear Entity Web?" He sets it all on the coffee table and turns to Jon, dusting his hands off on his pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, never ever say that, Martin. I swear."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alright, sorry." Martin lifts his hands in surrender, "I will never again call the great notorious embodiment of Fear - the Web - anyone's slutty, slutty sugar daddy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I hate you, shut up, please" Jon walks over with the excuse to punch Martin lightly in the shoulder. It's an excuse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh? Or-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon leans up to kiss Martin and render him incapable of further rascal speech. It is, reliably so, effective.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tragically, his back does not agree. Martin feels Jon's hiss and flinch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mm, you alright?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mildly less than usual... Don't make old man jokes, but my back - no matter how banal it sounds - is killing me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"An explosion couldn't do it, but some back pain will be what renders the great Jonathan Sims dead? Interesting, I bet Elias '200 year old bitch' Bouchard will be thrilled to know." Martin pecks Jon's temple, careful to avoid the eyes. His hands crawl around Jon's middle, "Where?" He presses his thumbs into Jon's spine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mm." Jon begins to lean all his weight onto Martin's front without warning and without cooperation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do not go potato-sack on me, c'mon, go lie down." Martin follows Jon into the bedroom and waits for Jon to maneuver his protesting body to lie on his stomach. "Kay, you tell me if something hurts in a bad way or you want me to stop, cool?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon sighs into the blanket, "Mm, the rare time I'm in a situation where to potentially use a safe word, been waiting for an opportunity forever now."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin rolls Jon's shirt up, "Really?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, once... Georgie... once, Georgie explained what they were and that hers was 'Matrix' and I'd been thinking about it ever since."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Huh, so what's your essentially non-sexual safe word?" Martin begins kneading at Jon's back, using mainly his knuckles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Automatonophobia." Jon lets it roll off his tongue easily, not a stumble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels Martin's hands falter momentarily, "Excuse me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Automatonophobia." Jon repeats, "The fear of human-like things, mannequins, um, wax... figures." He scrunches his eyebrows up, "Oh wow, I just realized how bad that is in the light of... new developments." He melts into the mattress slowly, letting himself relax as Martin avoids his spine and instead massages the skin and muscle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"M, aren't safe words supposed to be easy to, y'know, say quickly?" Martin's voice drifts with an audible smile but a sincere desire to understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Automatonophobia is easy to say, I don't know what you mean."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin pinches him lightly but it doesn't really feel bad. "Fine, fine. Why automanophobia? Or however you, apparently, easily say it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Automatonophobia." Jon shifts to prevent his arms from falling asleep and goes right back to dissolving into the mattress. "We'd just finished watching Tourist Trap then and I didn't like it enough to look up the phobia of mannequins."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin starts pushing his thumbs out from the sides of Jon's back to meet over his spine and it's like all his muscles are being rearranged back into coherency. "Nasty. I've never heard of it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tourist Trap?" Jon barely mumbles into the covers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mm, 1979, directed by David Schmoeller. Some nosy teens in a haunted wax museum." Jon exhales deeply as Martin's hands start working upwards, crawling to his shoulder blades and beginning to massage there too, strong and mildly painful in some good post-workout way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin hums an amused little noise, "I can't believe you just have that memorized and didn't have to Behold it... You're such a nerd."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're worse, don't argue." Jon tilts his head from where it was buried in the blanket, slanting his eyes at Martin vaguely, "Who's to say I didn't behold it, discreetly?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You think you're sneaky, Jonathan, but I can tell." Martin puts his shoulders into the next kneading motion across Jon's back and pulls a creaky whine from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely</span>
  </em>
  <span> Behold secretly, Martin, you underestimate me, I'm the Archives." Jon mocks the last half of the sentence in Elias' voice which is unnervingly convincing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin gently pinches him again, "Sure, I don't know what you think happens when you decide to give the Eye a kiss or vice versa, but on my end, it's like watching reality get visually autotuned, except in the distorted meme way."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can you please go back to writing poetry instead of unfolding your complex phraseologies on my poor ears, Martin? Horrible..." Jon knows he's barely legible, but it's also Martin's own fault so he'll deal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll look into it. C'mon, try to Behold something without letting me know." Martin's hands are far too practiced on Jon's shoulders, strong but precise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon racks his brain for useless knowledge he already possesses, "the density of vasopressin receptors in the brains of voles - which is a bird - differ depending on if the subspecies leans more towards a changing array or partners or monogamy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cool, very sweet, where in the brain though?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon does not know- or well, he does not know until he very much </span>
  <em>
    <span>Does</span>
  </em>
  <span>: "Forebrain and the reward pathway."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You Beheld that last part." Martin says it without an ounce of smugness in his voice, instead rather very amused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon, in lieu of this, feels very bullied. Admittedly lying on a soft bed and getting massaged into a pile of putty, "That's because these are bad conditions" - sigh - "to conduct an experiment in." He slowly rolls over, awfully reluctant but equally stubborn to get his potential for low profile Beholding across. "If you can send objects to the Lonely without going grey or translucent, I can use the Eye without.. What was it, autotune?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin sits back, placing his hands on his hips, "Visual, yes. Alright, give me another fact."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There was going to be a sequel to Beetlejuice but it got ultimately scrapped due to the director and Keaton getting involved in another project." Jon lies on his back, far too relaxed to attempt any further movement, fully aware that the crane of his neck must make for a very unflattering double-chin angle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why do you know all these movie facts? I remember Tim having a breakdown when you said you didn't know who Darth Vader was." Then Martin immediately points at Jon, smiling far too bright, "Aha! You were about to Behold Vader facts!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon, who was, indeed, about to Behold Vader facts, stops dead in his mental tracks and frowns, "I didn't even start."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Honestly, it must have been terrifying for avatars to see you shimmer, prepping up to straight-up read their life story..." Martin examines Jon's torso, up from which a few politely glowing eyes track his gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon remembers the... last few miserable moments of Peter Lukas' demise. Remembers the anger as Mike Crew snapped and the pain of Breekon. Remembers how Basira had bored her eyes into him the rest of the trip to the Dark's adobe. God, he'd spent years behind a desk reading miles of statements about the most fear-inducing things out there and he's been in their ranks for nearly as long. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin lies down next to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You okay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's a strange question to ask now. But Martin's always been full to the brim with an inherent affinity to caring, what's both landed him in far too much turmoil for someone who'd just wanted a stable job- yet also something that's pulled Jon out of likely demise multiple times and counting. Jon turns to face him, drawing his knees up to tangle with Martin's legs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry you have to look at it. Mmm.. At me." Jon closes his real eyes, retracting his chin to hide within his shirt's collar, lying in the dark of closed eyelids yet feeling Martin's hands find his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin's voice is soft, it cannot exist outside of their shared space.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'd like you to know- and I don't care if it's the lowercase 'k' or uppercase 'k' type of know - but either way... Jon, I'd never been scared of you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For</span>
  </em>
  <span> you? Multiple times. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>of</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Think I'm a bit too far gone for that." He faintly traces patterns into Jon's palms, "The world's all bad right now, the world's not the world, but you're very much you. That's good. I love you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon can kind of deal with making eye contact with the sky, can kind of deal with finding dead moths in his hair every time he zones back in from a long bout of trippy dissociation. He finds it marginally harder to process, let alone deal with, Martin's veracious onslaught of reassurance and the devastating kiss he plants on Jon's forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you too." He squints his eyes open and stares at Martin's jaw to avoid any more sincere confrontation, blinking as the centrifugal vertigo of the words really catching on. It plummets his chest empty, immediately then flooding it with a tingly kind of warmth. Terrible. He can't live without it. He looks up and stares in a way he's been told is rather unsettling, but Martin doesn't seem much deterred. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cool we got that sorted out," Martin smiles at him and it crinkles his eyes, eyes that had regained vital color after slowly and surely losing saturation over the course of months. Jon wants to drown in them. "But I do have another question."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon raises his eyebrows, lazily humming in response, sleepy all of a sudden but aware there'll be no outlet for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin plants his palm against Jon's side in an unbelievably calming gesture, "I couldn't help but notice, while working muscle cramps out of your old man back, that you, and I'd like to know why, have an incomplete collection of ribs."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon feels his face blank as Martin specifically thumbs at the last rib on his side, one that's a whole two ribs too early. He tries to squirm the hand off himself, grumbling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I should have made it clear to Jared that he take a rib from each side, but alas, he decided both from my left would be... easier." Jon huffs, trying to roll away from Martin's hand (and, subsequently, into Martin himself). "So he ended up taking my uh-" </span>
  <em>
    <span>floating ribs, costae spuriae</span>
  </em>
  <span>, "- two bottom floating ribs. Costae spuriae in Latin. Fun fact."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, the coffin... Incident." Martin relents on Jon's ribless side and instead wraps his entire arm around him, pulling him in fully and closing his eyes against Jon's head of hair, "That can be your new, non-clown related safeword."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Coffin incident?" Jon exclaims from where he's very contently bracketed into Martin's chest, "I do not see how that is an improvement."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Noooo! Stop! The Latin! It's equally hard to pronounce and isn't in a normal person's lexicon, so, right up your alley." Martin's voice is much more reverberated from where Jon lies, letting Martin's complaints surround him throughout. Martin's last grumble - </span>
  <em>
    <span>ew, coffin incident... </span>
  </em>
  <span>- is fuzzy along the edges and Jon feels it more than hears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I hate that, it's perfect. If you ever accidentally poke my soft boiled organs, I'll be sure to mention my missing ribs."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jon, what did you just say?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mm, is de-shelled organs better?" It's very warm where he is now, and he feels himself absorbing the benefits of Martin's natural furnace abilities. Fuck the Burried, this is the kind of all-encompassing dark, blanketing feeling that Jon can revel in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"De-shelled... It's really not. Can you Behold synonyms?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, but seeing that you so easily take note, I will try my best to just use my plebian knowledge of English. You need to teach me how to use powers discreetly." The further he gets through the last few words the more incoherent he knows they become, lost against Martin's sweater. It's alright. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As alright as things can be now. Mildly more than usual. Jon smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think kinning a thesaurus and making coins disappear are that similar, but I'll make sure to, step at a time, mm?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Quite," Jon sighs into the dark and slips into the closest feeling to sleep he'd experienced in days. It's the rest stop halfway through a long journey home. A break before the inevitable home run. "Quite."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>well, yall know the drill, hmu w prompts in the comments if u so please (typos too lmao)<br/>lotsa love &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. windowpane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin knits and there's rather a lot of remembering.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this one's a bit sadder than the previous but the next two are hands down just soft gay , cest la vie and cest is my horrible idea to write this this late<br/>cw: allusions to the lonely/depression + mentions of canon character death</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"How'd you learn to vanish objects?"</p>
<p><br/>"I wanted to check how many pens I could vanish off of Peter's desk without him incriminating me," Martin shrugs and it mildly jostles Jon as he sits between Martin's legs, back to Martin's chest, lightly holding the gifted Manipulation Yarn as Martin knits.</p>
<p><br/>"Mm, how many was it?"</p>
<p><br/>"Eight before he came out of the office to get more, twelve before he got mad and left for a week." Martin's knitting something that still looks incoherent, chin lying on Jon's shoulder. "He can't use his computer and it took him a while to start talking to me, so he used to leave me handwritten notes."</p>
<p><br/>"How... wonderfully petty."</p>
<p><br/>"It was boring, I needed to see how far he'd stretch his ignorance. Helped me gauge his tolerance in the long run."<br/>Jon hums in response, a faint buzz against Martin's chest where he's planted rather firmly and warmly, and Martin remembers how much colder the archives got that year- still doesn't know if it was from Peter Lukas rolling in with a gust of misery or if it was the constant pending feeling, waiting for a call from the hospital to finally pronounce Jon dead, or what's worse, declare they'd be taking him off life support. The last was unrealistic. Martin knew it then and knows it now, because the room was being paid for by the institute and it was a private hospital and yadda yadda but knowing that Jon was lying somewhere, dependant on people Martin didn't know... </p>
<p><br/>And so he stole Peter's pens. </p>
<p><br/>He loops off a row and starts on the next, watching Jon accommodate and feed the stitches more yarn, no longer adverse to touching it. </p>
<p><br/>"I think the key to using powers discretely is the conviction that if you are found out you die."<br/>Jon sputters faintly, "Peter would kill you for stealing pens?"</p>
<p><br/>"You thought talking to a coworker nicely would kill you once upon a time, so excuse me for thinking a powerful avatar might be angry me," Martin laughs, "I'm glad that's changed, though, the not talking bit" he turns his face to kiss Jon's cheek.</p>
<p><br/>"Mm. It'd only taken the deaths of those around me and my own... death... to realize it."</p>
<p><br/>The knitting needles click click like the slow approach of someone across cold plastic flooring. </p>
<p><br/>"Correlation or causation." Martin murmurs, counting stitches: knit four, purl one, knit one.</p>
<p><br/>Jon seems to seriously think about it for a long time. Knit a full row. Then four, purl one... Jon finally speaks up, once more extracting more yarn for Martin.</p>
<p><br/>"Concurrency. Everything fell apart together."</p>
<p><br/>"Everyone, too."</p>
<p><br/>It's easy to blame Jon for inhabiting the epicenter of that social and personal decomposition. For ignoring the warning signs of the archive's tricky hold, for not fighting harder here, communicating better there. It is very easy, and Martin had fallen down that rabbit hole before, in the freshly choked up hours of the morning between two different hospitals: his mother's funeral, Jon's continual mausoleum. </p>
<p><br/>But you cannot blame a piece of shrapnel for its trajectory when in a hurricane.</p>
<p><br/>Jon's breathing harder now, and there's a double kind of unfolding in his chest - Martin can feel it through where Jon's back rests - the inhale and then something else under it, a bit latent and faint. Exhale and there it is again. Echoes, almost. Another set of lungs, almost. Martin loops off the row. Knit one, purl, knit four.</p>
<p><br/>"Do you want to talk about it?"</p>
<p><br/>Jon nods, feverishly, now clutching the ball of yarn in shaking hands. He doesn't look upset though, face blank if a bit panicked. </p>
<p><br/>Martin pauses the knitting, lowering his hands to rest on Jon's stomach in a lateral hug. Waits, yet nothing comes. Listens to Jon's breathing, inhale inhale, exhale exhale, inhale inhale, exhaleexhale inhaleinhale, Martin's eyes dart down to where the ball of yarn is beginning to swim in deep magenta, the color crawling up to where he'd been knitting, slowly consuming the beginnings of the strip, spiraling around the needles. Jon's breathing is fast and his fingers dig deep dips and punctures into the ball of yarn- he's starting to tense up and Martin can almost see his brain speeding too fast, like a computer you'd asked too much from.</p>
<p><br/>"Hey, Jon. You can feel my chest, match your breaths to my chest, honey, match half of your breaths to mine, alright? I would like you to name me a blue fruit, can you do that?" He speaks calmly and quietly. Jon seems to be unresponsive until the last part, at which he breaks out in static ripples, blinking hard as if someone had clapped their hands in front of his face.</p>
<p><br/>"Blue tomatoes."</p>
<p><br/>"Thank you, hey," Martin places his knitting down and instead sits up, rotating Jon so he's pressing his shoulder against Martin's chest, knees hooked over Martin's arm, pulled close, "Hey, it's alright. You don't have to think about it too hard, you don't have to." He wants to say they don't owe anyone anything but is there even anyone to owe anything to?</p>
<p><br/>Jon holds onto Martin's shirt. </p>
<p><br/>"I'm sorry." He murmurs.</p>
<p><br/>"For what?"</p>
<p><br/>Jon is tense, hard coiled, "You said to mask powers you must be afraid of the outcome."</p>
<p><br/>"In a... in a sense." Martin watches the crown of Jon's head, "You did it, snuck a small little Beholding past me, didn't you?"</p>
<p><br/>Jon nods.</p>
<p><br/>"Something you'd rather not... You don't have to say what you learned."</p>
<p><br/>"Your father's still alive."</p>
<p><br/>Martin blanks a bit. </p>
<p><br/>They sit in silence for a long time. </p>
<p><br/>The yarn rests in a now washed-out sort of pink, greens and yellows crawling into the mix, rather unattractively. Martin feels like he'd just landed a long, long fall, and is both surprised to have survived- then surprised at being surprised. He could've guessed, but really, he thought little of his family these 'days' or whatever form of time they were being fed. He's really not sure what to feel. What he can feel though is the steady twin rise and fall of Jon's chest and the still coiled nature of his muscles. </p>
<p><br/>"Okay." Martin's voice is less steady but it's steady enough.</p>
<p><br/>"Sorry."</p>
<p><br/>"No, it's, it's okay. It's okay." He breathes in, out, now calming himself, "I don't know if it's reassuring or . um. damning... To be fully honest. Jon, why'd Knowing that scare you?"</p>
<p><br/>Jon's marginally more relaxed now and shrugs with one shoulder. "I guess it's boundaries. And nothing related to me. I don't want to hurt you. Have enough already."</p>
<p><br/>Martin pulls him a bit closer, a bit tighter, "I'm glad you're aware of boundaries, I'd say it's a rather effective spit in the face of voyeuristic bastardism." Jon doesn't really laugh at that but Martin hadn't meant it enough as a joke. "I think enough has happened in my life that my more family-related drama had fallen away at some point. The history, at least. I haven't thought about them in a long time. "</p>
<p><br/>"Sorry I derailed everything. Sorry it's bad now."</p>
<p><br/>Martin doesn't know if Jon means the conversation or the world.</p>
<p><br/>"Apologizing doesn't rebuild things, it can help but it can't magically reverse everything" Martin, equally, does not know which of the two he is replying about. Seems all the same, seems all the same. </p>
<p><br/>"Do you know any other magic?" It comes out of the blue and Martin momentarily remembers showing his neighbor's kid the detaching thumb trick and she'd cried. Thought it was real. </p>
<p><br/>"Sure." Martin sits back from curling over Jon so his face is visible. Exhales as much air as he can, and when he breathes in, it's not the familiar yet slightly-off smell of the cabin, it's cold and heavy with moisture. Martin blows smoke rings of mist into the air. </p>
<p><br/>Jon's eyes go wide and he scrambles up a bit, "Why do you just know how to abuse the Lonely?"</p>
<p><br/>Martin shrugs, "It's not a power that comes with um... a lot of action. You get bored, entertain yourself."<br/>"And how do you know how to blow rings?"</p>
<p><br/>Martin remembers stealing cigarettes, far too young: but it was that or the hair dye. And his mother would notice the hair faster than the accumulation of nicotine on his breath. Remembers not knowing why the cigs but knows he needed the outlet of delinquency and then the spark of lying about it. Looks at the yarn on the table now. It wavers with dull red brick color and the swirls of orange.</p>
<p><br/>"It's not too hard," Martin smiles, "Can you? With how often you used to stink the archives up just by arriving in them, I'd think you ate nicotine for lunch."</p>
<p><br/>Jon rubs at his face, "It wasn't a good time."</p>
<p><br/>"Mm."</p>
<p><br/>"God... when is it ever."</p>
<p><br/>Martin cups Jon's face, no tears there but Jon also doesn't cry easy. </p>
<p><br/>"It can't always be good. Can't be bad always either." Martin muses more to himself but Jon looks up at the last part, looks up at the cabin and lifts his hand to gesture vaguely at where they are, the scar tissue warping, familiar.</p>
<p><br/>"What is this then? I bring upon this innocent, unknowing world, something that many have died to prevent, to slow, and I hide in possibly the last safe place on this no-longer planet? Martin, Martin, I am the megaphone for someone else's violence but I am no sinless participant, I may not have written the script but I put everything I had into playing the role. Martin. People are dead... Distressed, in danger."</p>
<p><br/>"You are people too. I will not justify the apocalypse nor will I... ignore its effects, but it was not your intention, nor something you had the resources to prevent."</p>
<p><br/>"I could've burned the archives long, long ago. I've had my bloody chances!"</p>
<p><br/>"Jon, knowledge is a resource. And it was a resource you did not have."</p>
<p><br/>Jon sits there quietly. He is not free of blame, yes, but nor is he going to survive well if he keeps carrying the whole of it. The echo to Jon's breaths is clear in the silence and Jon rubs at his eyes hard, swaying mildly. <br/>He barely enunciates it, "Nothing good..."</p>
<p><br/>"Not nothing." Martin tells that to himself so, so often, "Small good things are still good things. I had to learn that clear and simple, coming back out of uh, mm, the mist. You learned something new today about your powers. I got yarn delivered to me earlier on this same, long, today. Days ago today. Good things are not invalidated by a bad background, they only stand out more."</p>
<p><br/>There's nothing to answer to that.</p>
<p><br/>Jon thinks about this actively, Martin can tell by the set of his face and the periodical dodging of his eyes, and so Martin picks the knitting back up, knit one. Purl one. Knit four. It's calming even if the swirling colors are hard to look at and feel too representative of one's thoughts. Jon's sitting on his own now but his legs are still tangled with Martin's and he's not shutting out, present in the moment, just thinking. And he has been getting mildly taller- no, that's not right - longer? Purl one. Knit one. Martin can still feel the lack of ribs like a blindspot on Jon's side, but he also doesn't know how many ribs someone should have rows of. He'll check on himself eventually. Knit four. But he's sure that Jon's ribcage is just... a few rows more now. There are four lungs there. It's not the strangest development. Knit a row. Knit four. Purl one. He just needs to learn to breathe well again.  Martin will have to adjust the length of the sweater he's making if Jon decides to grow any taller. It's a knitting pattern he'd learned nearly the year he had to drop out to start really working. The name of it had attracted his young poet's soul: the <em>mist on a windowpane</em> stitch.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>not beta'd so do tell me if something is just downright incoherent, oh god</p>
<p>here's the stitch martin is doing: https://ohlalana.com/mist-stitch-pattern/</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon experiments with controlling some rather new developments.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>all the eye avatar know is self doubt, be gay, and LIE (down to cuddle)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>Jon sits in the sweater, trying to be very cool about it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin had been knitting for a long time and when they'd taken a break to curl up and simulate the feeling of sleep, Jon had closed his eyes and zoned out peacefully against the comforting darkness of an embrace. He'd opened them when Martin, sounding more amused than freaked out, whispered, "Wakey, wakey, I have some interesting news for you." into his hear. He slowly unwrapped from Jon, letting Jon sit up, and realize the rather obvious truth: between lying down to nap and getting back up, he'd ... manifested(?) an additional set of arms.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The moth comparisons are getting really on the nose," Martin watched Jon flex his new hands and arms, coordination shaky.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon had been at a rather substantial loss for comment and so Martin kept talking, asking if Jon could tell there was also a new set of lungs, nearly adding fuel to the <em>what the hell is going on </em>fire. Jon, for all his job was to watch and notice, <em>hadn't</em> noticed and was very worried <em>Martin</em> somehow had.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's not too... easy to miss? When I hold you, I can feel you inhaling twice," Martin shrugged, "I'll need to make adjustments to the sweater design, though."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>So now Jon sits in a sweater with four sleeves. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He'd grown so accustomed to his other clothing, almost as if they'd become a second skin, from the unpinnable stretch of time he'd worn them. And now donning something new is rather startling. That, and it is soft and Martin had made it and it's the color of gasoline puddles in water, shifting ever so slightly. It's pleasant and he likes it and the Web gets none of that praise because this wouldn't be a sweater for Jon if Martin hadn't decided on it. The yarn could've just been tossed out. Jon wonders how Martin knew to look under the floorboards. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Alright, I've found scented candles, which I know for a fact were here before the crowning and therefore are less likely to be Desolation-related," Martin comes up to the couch, carrying a lighter and a small, deep purple candle, "And if it is, then the Desolation has good taste. Fruits on an island." He sets the candle down and lights it, quick and practiced.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Nice, a rather sufficient substitute for having dinners..." Jon shifts to put his feet in Martin's lap. "You said you wanted to try something out?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin nods, smiling, "Right, so, with everything going on, we already aren't doing too swimmingly, but you look downright spooked of your own skeleton with the um, recent developments, so I'd reasoned that... hm, familiarizing yourself with the- um- arms? Would... be a good idea..." He's a bit sputtery again, and Jon gets hit with the nostalgia of years ago where Martin would sometimes fail to get a sentence out around Jon. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm on the fence but I'll let you lead..." Jon sits up a little more, folding his original hands in his lap and letting the new ones rest by his thighs, a bit spiffed on where to put them.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sure, just shout out your rib word if you wanna stop," Martin turns to face him more, lifting a hand to his head and placing one on his own stomach, "So, this, yes?" He begins patting his head and rubbing his belly after a second of trying to get each hand to do the right thing, "Motion independence between two arms is really muddled, now what about four?" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon looks down at his torso, obstructed mildly by the sweater Martin had made oversized on request. Jon had grown a few inches in height, but in no way aided by leg-length. Instead, the... addition to his physiology seemed to stem from a few extra pairs of ribs (compensation!) and the added pair of arms. This put him closer to Martin's height and felt mildly disorienting, like the first time he'd tried on platform heels. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So you want me to..." Jon lifts one hand to his head, places another on his stomach, and is left with two more, "Alright, what about...hrm... these.."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It's a bit startling when Martin reaches over to touch the new arms and guides one hand to Jon's chest and another to his temple, completely comfortable with touching them. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Okay, now, um, circle the two hands on your head and pat the other two..."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon tries to and it's immensely confounding, and must look ridiculous to boot as Martin bites the inside of his cheek and tries to not look on the verge of giggles.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Does it look that bad?" Jon finally kind of gets a hang of it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"More like a newborn deer walking for the first time, really," Martin taps his chin, "Okay so you have good limb independence, what about hand dominance?" Martin sticks his palms out to Jon, "Write something with your finger, use your primary two hands."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon lifts the top pair and writes on Martin's palm, he'd always been vaguely ambidextrous but the left comes easier.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin goes red, having felt Jon write out <em>I love you</em>, "Okay, now your two secondary hands."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon obliges, lifting his newer arms and attempting to write the same thing, but finding it hard to not only make contact with Martin's palm but also to coordinate the letters at all, like using an arm that's fallen asleep beyond even the tingles. "I don't think I'm good enough with these two..."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Huh, must be like learning to write all over again..." Martin smiles and it's impressively reassuring and Jon reasons that maybe this isn't all that bad, maybe if Martin can be... okay with it, Jon can too. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I don't know why'd I'd ever need to... write with these, I doubt they're level with any desk..."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin had accepted Jon's failure to express dexterity and had instead transitioned to holding Jon's new hands in his own, casually, maybe even on autopilot, "Tough luck, we'll need to improve your coordination... Huh, you'll be able to play cat's cradle with yourself, I'd always wanted to do that as a kid." </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You're rather... positive about this."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Jon, name a single downside apart from having to get a new wardrobe! You can now hold more things, give better hugs, clap louder..." Martin smiles, bringing Jon's hands up to kiss them and it's so very damning, "Maybe the only other con is that I need to work harder to hold <em>all</em> your hands now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon can feel his face burning, primary arms coming up to rub at his cheeks to try and banish the blush, "You don't <em>need</em> to."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"On the contrary, I really think I do." Martin collects all of Jon's hands and kisses each knuckle, which admittedly takes now twice as long and is decidedly ridiculous. Martin slants his eyes at Jon's sweater, which has erupted into a very pleasant, warm yellow, "Aw, Jon, is that a mood-ring sweater?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon sputters, tugging at least one hand free of Martin's own to pat at the fabric in accusation, "No, it's not, this is not- no, mood-rings react to body temperature, they don't actually work. This, this is just color coincidence."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sure," Martin grins and it's hugely disarming for a man of such defaultedly polite features, "Jon, completely unrelated to the situation, but did you know you are very, very pretty?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Stop that," Jon points three hands at Martin, but the sweater only gets progressively more orange, a jolly, vibrant hue, swirling with traces of yellow at a much more active pace.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"In the name of science, Jon, I also really like your eyes, all of them."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Stop-"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The way they glow in the dark reminds me of really small lava lamps and I think that's rather cool."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon is beginning to drown in the very positive and constricting feeling his ribcage is getting assaulted with, coupled by the increasingly evident burn of his face, the sweater coming along to only further hammer the point home, turning blood orange. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin's smiling too, and gently catches Jon's flapping hands, tugging at them to pull Jon closer and effectively into his lap, "And I really like listening to you talk - conceptually - even if the shit that comes out of your mouth is sometimes immensely uncomfortable. That and I think your company is unbelievably pleasant - as in I can't believe I find it pleasant, but I do." He begins peppering Jon's face and neck with kisses, which now cause twice as much wriggling from Jon in leu of new arms to wriggle with.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"This is a very horrible scientific experiment for you, I think you've proven the mood-sweater hypothesis." Jon squeaks despite his better efforts. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Mm, the science side is just something extra, as it's more of an excuse to shower you with all the stuff that just goes through my head 24/7." He jabs Jon in the stomach, making him bark out startled laughter, "Even though I'm not sure how much the 24-hour format applies anymore."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon is going to burn up with how hard he's blushing, the sweater now a lovely shade of red, rather light, more like watermelon than wine. "I wonder if there's- that tickles, Martin- a way to better measure time," Jon wriggles again as Martin plants a rather ticklish kiss on his neck, "Like if time doesn't pass, then, say, a candle wouldn't necessarily melt, yes?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This piques Martin's interest and he finally relents, turning to look at the fruits on a beach scented candle he'd brought over for sensory input's sake, but not taking his hands off Jon's waist. If they can't revel in tasting food or drink, they might as well enjoy a nice smelling room. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The candle has, indeed, been slowly melting. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Huh, it's like an hourglass."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Tea candles take about three hours to burn." Jon watches it too, becoming conscious of the smell that's had time to waft around the room, indeed something tropical with that undertone of burned cloth. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Small candles are called tea candles? Aw, that's cute," Martin smiles and then looks back over at Jon, "Do you just know that or did you Behold it, cause I couldn't tell."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon blinks back at him, shifting his hands a little where two of the four had been fisted into Martin's shoulders to wrestle him, "Really? I just learned it, you couldn't tell?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Martin beams, "Nope! Yay, you've passed spy-school!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon can't help but kind of grin back to the best of his ability, leaning down to kiss Martin, "I have a wonderful teacher."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Now we just gotta teach you to write with all four hands, and then you'll be able to draw swirls on my shoulder when you think I'm asleep with twice the efficiency!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon sputters and angrily pecks Martin's forehead, knocking his nose against the hairline on accident, "I don't! I don't do that!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's cute," Martin smooths down Jon's swimming orange and yellow sweater, "I actually used to watch a lot of cryptozoology documentaries growing up, and let me assure you that my top two favorites were the Mothman and Chupacabra, so this is like a nice reprise."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon settles to rest on top of Martin, curling up like a big cat with too many limbs, "I cannot believe in your ranking system, an interdimensional entity is on the same level as some hairless dog." He'd indulged in minor cryptozoology as a kid too, but quickly learned to stray from 'Top Ten Videos Zoologists Can't Explain' rabbit holes on YouTube after losing a fair amount of sleep. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, are you actually bothered by that?" Martin runs his hands up and down Jon's back, humming as Jon hugs him. "If it makes you feel better, aesthetically, Mothman is superior."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon knows there is no clear proof that his... gaining of extra arms is connected to the reoccurring moth symbolism that the Eye and the Web had held hands to shove at him, hence he doesn't have a good basis for getting defensive about Martin nonchalantly equating Mothman with the naked dog. And yet... "Only aesthetically? Martin, the Mothman is tied to the collapse of a whole bridge, I don't know how that is inferior to some cattle sucked dry of blood. Vampirism is nothing new."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The slow, calm laughter that rolls through Martin shakes Jon a little and sounds much deeper where he's got his ear pressed to Martin's chest. "Fine, fine, Mothman can be number one, in light of recent developments. Also, I was right, you do hug much better now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jon sighs and squeezes Martin tighter, "I suppose I do," he watches the candle slowly melt its wax base, becoming more reflective of the small dancing flame. "Thank you, Martin."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I love you too."</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am going to die<br/>i am going to die a death and my body will never be discovered<br/>i cannot find the piece of art, and by extension, the OP that might have heavily inspired this take on monster!jon<br/>I've scrolled through the tag for so long now and i cannot seem to locate it again. it was a black and white comic where moth!jon has an extra set of arms+shoulders and martin's fashioned him some kind of new shirt/croptop and Jon says something like "martin, i look like a whore"<br/>omg if anyone knows who drew it please drop it down in the comments bcs i feel like credit is in some form due and i am going insane</p>
<p>EDIT:<br/>here's the fanart i was talking about! thank you to Forgotten_Lighthouse_Of_Flowers for locating this immediately, i owe them my fucking brain <br/>https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/615224567012687872/based-on-dathen-s-genius-halter-top-reply-to-my</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. no kings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Card tricks and fucking with the dread gods and their egos.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im back with another one folks! heck ye</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon holes up in his room for once with a rather precise goal. He’d been ruminating on Martin’s divulgence in the floorboards and if it was something he suddenly Knew he needed to check in or if it was the simple boredom of cabin fever, and so Jon picks them open too. There’s a deck of cards there.</p>
<p>Plains and sleek, utterly unremarkable, aside from the fact that every single king card is missing. <em>Play them right </em>sits heavy in the air. He feels like he’s holding the lighter all over again, <em>play it right, Archive. </em></p>
<p>But not today. Today Jon is going to hide in the bedroom for some ‘time’ and learn card manipulation tricks. The name is suiting enough.</p>
<p>The cards slip through his fingers at first, sliding against each other too well, the pack yet unworn by countless hands and being passed around and bent in game. Jon doubts they will ever get the honor of fulfilling their purpose as a vessel for entertainment over maybe a table of drinks. Instead, they will live in Jon’s inexperienced palm as he attempts to make them dance to his will, deciding to take advantage of powers so graciously dropped into his lap and shackled onto his shoulders. And so he Beholds technique – which is not to say it comes easy in any way. He can know how to send the cards flitting from one hand to another but it is much more difficult to make them do just so with his own hands. If Martin can make coins disappear, Jon can learn to make some cards fly. In a controlled manner, that is.</p>
<p>He rolls up the sleeves of his sweater that are now a slow swim of forestry green as he focuses. He lays aside the cards he accidentally creases and works on, thinking he needs to make this perfect, needs to show it to Martin.  The cards run before his eyes and Annabelle can lay off with whatever this is supposed to be about. Right now it will be about Martin.</p>
<p>It’s rather good that time is subjective now, because Jon knows this would’ve taken a remarkably long time otherwise. The cards learn and he learns along with them to throw them just right and catch them. It’s not ideal or finessed but he also misses Martin, which is rather dumb, but not untrue. He takes the cards that have survived his practicing without creases and drifts back into the living room, rolling his shoulders. Martin’s knitting something new on the couch and Jon sees the yarn swirling a calm blue, more peace than melancholy. Jon steps over the arms of the couch and plops onto it, kicking his legs up into Martin’s lap, which is quickly accommodated for, the yarn moved. Martin looks up, mild surprise but ultimately happy to see him, which is deeply affecting. Jon notes that with an extra pair of lungs he now apparently has more organs to feel his breath catch in a bit.</p>
<p> “I, um, learned some stuff?”</p>
<p>Martin sets his needles now, “Oh?” He smiles and turns to Jon fully, “I’m at full attention.”</p>
<p>Jon feeling suddenly far too self-conscious pulls out the cards from his lower third sleeve, new hands still not the most confident in their motions, but the last few – what felt like hours – had surprisingly enough helped the development of… proficient at least, dexterity. He lifts the cards and flicks his eyes up at Martin momentarily, before performing a rather simple card flourish and only so with his utmost original hands. Martin whistles but rather quickly shuts up when Jon moves onto the more complex trick he’d been honing in on for rather some time. He sends the cards flying across his lap in an arc, landing in his bottom left hand and then immediately snatching cards from mid-air with his top-left hand, plucking them from the stream and spinning them on his finger.</p>
<p>It’s, impressive but even more impressive that he doesn’t muck it up- until his brain gets a bit too distracted cheering and angles the last few flying cards weird and the wrench free, instead flying directly into Marin’s face. Martin throws his hands up in defense as Jon freaks out and sends more cards fanning at Martin on accident- except they pass straight through Martin and land on the other side of him. They sit in silence for a moment, then Martin slowly looks over behind himself and sees the cards that should’ve hit him in the face and didn’t.</p>
<p>Jon leans around him to look too, then sticks a finger out to poke at Martin’s face, which is admittedly very much <em>real </em>and solid and should not be making exceptions for flying cards when it comes to realistic consistency. Martin kisses Jon’s fingertip on rather damning reflex. Jon brushes the back of his knuckles along Martin’s chin and then retracts his hand, “As rather interesting as the trick had any right to be, I believe this development is much more intriguing.”</p>
<p>“I’m apt to argue,” Martin shrugs, looking down at his very real, non-translucent hands. “Throw something at me again.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to throw things at you, Martin…”</p>
<p>“Fine, toss,” and Martin smiles, assuring, “For scientific curiosity…”</p>
<p>Jon looks around and picks up a few more cards, the first two of which behave in rather predicable paper-related ways and fall away to the side when throws. Jon finally resorts to tossing the card like a frisbee and it very sharply hits Martin’s collarbone. Hits it. Bounces off a little and falls down onto Jon’s legs. Martin rubs the spot that it hit and squints, “Maybe it didn’t work because it wasn’t adrenaline-related… Or a surprise? Good throw, though.”</p>
<p>Jon squints right back, “Has this happened before?”</p>
<p>“Not like that, no… I’ve snapped into the Lonely before to escape conversation and whatnot but I’ve never… Really had anything thrown at me? Did I look weird when it happened?”</p>
<p>“No,” Jon muses, “Fully saturated and all… No static…” Out of nowhere he frisbees another card at Martin, and this one hits Martin in the wrist, bouncing off. Jon immediately dives to pick it up and cover where the card had hit with his palm. “Sorry, sorry.”</p>
<p>“No, it’s okay. Huh, so you did get me off guard there, but I don’t know, maybe they weren’t coming for my face so I didn’t react as so?”</p>
<p>“So you need to be in fear for your face…” Jon pretends to seriously think about it, frowning for just the right amount of time to be convincing, “Well them…” He looks up, beginning to smile, “You’ll never see <em>this </em>coming!” And he springs at Martin, landing squarely at his chest and knocking them both backward, beginning to pepper Martin’s face with kisses.</p>
<p>Martin squeaks and begins laughing, hands coming to wrap around Jon, one slotting in the space between his topmost armpit and the shoulder directly under. “Yes, yes, I am so terrified right now.”</p>
<p>Jon kisses his face up and down, against his nose and forehead in rapid, rapid succession, his grin fighting to make the kisses difficult, “Rather scary, this is the fifteenth fear we did not know about!”</p>
<p>“Oh no, the entity of Jon’s kisses!” Martin howls with laughter, Jon’s four hands making for twice the needed amount of tickling that having someone lie on top of you might warrant, “Being attack by its most loyal avatar now, oh no what will happen to me!”</p>
<p>Something howls outside and they snap their heads up- or, well, howls more than usual.</p>
<p>“I think a smart idea would be to assume that was more than coincidence and then not test everyone’s patience.” Martin looks back at Jon and Jon’s neck in general, leaning in against it and sending pleasant shivers down Jon’s arms.</p>
<p>“Oh, absolutely.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>And then Jon leans down to kiss the top of his head, tentatively and slowly.</p>
<p>Martin hums from where he’s hugging Jon, “Oh no… The avatar… is back… to instill… more fear in me.”</p>
<p>Jon begins to grin and lands another kiss on the edge of Martin’s ear.</p>
<p>“Oh no! Once more, I am in grave danger, the most powerful entity has sent me its ultimate avatar!” Martin whines, so saturated with fake lament it’s making Jon crack up.</p>
<p>“Yes! I am the avatar of kisses and I am here to bring upon the…” Jon makes a dramatic pause, making direct eye contact with the draped window, “The kiss-pocalypse!”</p>
<p>Something howls outside once more, not closer or further away but insistently disgruntled.</p>
<p>“Oh, oh! The ritual is about to begin…” Marin giggles into Jon’s chest, hugging him close. “Bring your worst…”</p>
<p>Jon descends on him again in an array of kisses, laughing with his mouth closed as he tries to stay moderately composed as the outside riots, “Oh yes I am an avatar of only <em>one </em>entity, and the most <em>important </em>one to boot!” The upsides in four arms is that he can do jazzhands and still have enough hands to hold onto Martin.</p>
<p>The outside is so fucking upset.</p>
<p>Jon doesn’t care for the cards littering the floor and smacks another kiss onto Martin’s head, “Aha! Soon the world will be kisses only!”</p>
<p>Martin whines in mock sadness, “Oh how will we ever survive?”</p>
<p>They finally break out into full-on laughter and it’s like the best weapon against what may be going on. The best counteract to what they are yet to reel in and control. And for now it is enough, laughing together on the couch amidst cards and not giving a <em>damn. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you all wonderful bastards for the comments on the last chapter, helping me locate the blessed galaxy-brain fanart !~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. a song for the timeless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An unfurling.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>that's it babes! lets get some HOPEFUL vibes about the future since s5 sure ain't delivering atm ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My back is itchy.” Jon stands above Martin, who’s knitting again.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what to tell you,” Martin smiles but is already nodding for Jon to sit down, “Guess you’ll have to die in itch.”</p>
<p>“Splendid.” Jon smacks into the couch, facing away from Martin and hiking his sweater up, for now an array of pleasant autumn colors. “It’s bloody burning- my shoulder blades are.”</p>
<p>Martin goes to say something and then audibly gulps, “Woah- okay I <em>really </em>don’t know what to tell you.”</p>
<p>Jon winces, the hands not busy with holding the hem up, twisting into his pants, “Is it the Corruption kind of itch or am I growing yet more arms?”</p>
<p>Martin is quiet for only a moment but it’s moment enough to give Jon ample time spiraling into worry.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to make any assumptions,” Martin ventures, “But I have reason to believe that you are… Growing wings? Do not freak out.”</p>
<p>“Easy for you to say!” Jon bristles, the itch still worming into his skin with a scalpel’s precision, “This is a sodding nightmare, what do they look like?” He’s imagining the first joints of something fleshy and perhaps covered in premature feathers, the mockery of an angel you’d rather never meet.</p>
<p>“Um…” Martin sounds genuinely confused, “This is out of my area, but I’d… guess moth-ey? Dark and green.”</p>
<p>This startles Jon out of his mental image montage and into a new one. “Huh, the Eye is taking the whole mothman business far too seriously.”</p>
<p>This startles a laugh out of Martin, “Yeah and I’ll have to make modifications to anything I knit for you ever again.” He begins gently tracing what must be the skin right around the wings, close to where it itches, and Jon hums in relief.</p>
<p>“Really? What if it’s socks?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking more in the direction of a fully knitted onesie, to be fully honest, or like a morph suit but it’s yarn.”</p>
<p>“That’s horrible, I’ll call the web and tell it to stop sending materials.” Jon hangs his head, lost in the sensation of Martin’s fingers.</p>
<p>“Little do you know but I’ve got miles and miles of yarn hidden around this place, it’s far too late.” Martin’s smiling, Jon can tell by the voice, “I think the Web’ll also protect said yarn from your Beholding. So don’t bother trying to find it, can’t risk your self-esteem when you realize it’s the one truly untouchable thing.”</p>
<p>Jon chuckles, avoiding casting his mind to locate the hypothetical surplus “I wouldn’t destroy it, I’d just hold it captive and ask for ransom, and the ransom would be you promising to <em>never </em>knit morph suits.”</p>
<p>Martin’s fingers work around Jon’s shoulders, “I have to admit, in retrospect, if all of the Web’s yarn is a bloody acid-trip to look at, then a full-body coverage with the thing would look rather sordid.”</p>
<p>“You’re not wrong, yet the spiral would be rather proud.” Jon pulls away from the hands and lowers the sweater back, shoulders still aching but ruling it ignorable for now, “What are you making now?” He turns to Martin on the couch that’s quickly become the hub for hanging out.</p>
<p>“It was socks, until <em>you </em>said socks, and suddenly I’m tempted to make this into something else.” Martin smiles, picking the needles back up, the beginnings of a sock hanging off them in a light, pleasant purple.</p>
<p>Jon nods, “Leggings, then?”</p>
<p>This pulls a wince from Martin like he’d tasted something bitter, “Horrible. I don’t appreciate the input at all,” he sighs, “wanna fetch a candle?”</p>
<p>Jon nods and gets up from the couch over the back, soon retrieving a new scent of candle, and similarly slinking over the couch’s back to sit nearly on top of Martin.</p>
<p>“I will go physically transparent, don’t step on me,” Martin laughs, elbowing at Jon’s leg, “I love you.”</p>
<p>Jon flicks the candle alight, feeling his face burn similarly, “I love you too.” The smell of pumpkin spice begins saturating the air pleasantly, “Oh! I lit it with second hands, wonderful, it looks like my dexterity is at least… not at a stand-still.” Jon remarks, flexing his fingers.</p>
<p>“Heh, second-hand.” Martin knits quickly and swiftly and it’s mesmerizing, like watching fire, a visual loophole that leaves you unable to blink, really. Jon hums.</p>
<p>“How about you try to have a joke before the punchline?” He toes at Martin’s leg, smiling gently.</p>
<p>Martin sighs, over the top, “I used to do stand up in middle school but this isn’t enough reason to put me on the spot like this, Jon.”</p>
<p>“You used to do <em>what </em>in middle school?” Jon sits up, hands clapping together, pleasant distraction from the returning itch.</p>
<p>Martin looks like he regrets ever opening his mouth, “I was in theatre for a few years, stand up  and my involvement in it happened without my say.” He sets the knitting down and onto the table. He frowns at Jon’s curious expression, “I was a bit more upbeat before high school and I did a few routines at assemblies- do <em>not </em>look so excited, it was not <em>good. </em>Jon, Jon stop smiling, it was middle school, please imagine the range that <em>middle school </em>stand up would have.”</p>
<p>“I’m imagining you on stage,” Jon shrugs – regretting it mildly as the fabric of his sweater drags across what he now skirts around acknowledging as budding wings – “With a microphone. You still remember any of your speeches?”</p>
<p>Martin grins and shakes his head, “No, and I am very happy for the fact. What about you, what embarrassing pasts have yet been buried under the surface of such collected professional image of yours?”</p>
<p>Jon immediately remembers every single thing he’s ever done – not even courtesy of Eye-related powers – all purely the workings of regret.</p>
<p>“Nothing.”</p>
<p>Martin actually barks out a laugh at this, “I’m finding that so difficult to believe, knowing you existed as a preteen and teen at some point. What kind of things do you remember when you’re lying around and accidentally start reflecting on tween mistakes?”</p>
<p>Jon wrinkles his nose, noting the change in color of his sweater out of the corner of his eyes, “I was a music student.”</p>
<p>“<em>Really?” </em>Martin’s eyes go wide, “Not even theater?”</p>
<p>“Why would you pin me as theater, I’m… what about me screams theater?” Jon throws all hands up, mock-offended, and gestures at himself.</p>
<p>“Jon, you’re wearing a live-tie-dye sweater, for one. But mostly, you’re just queer so,” he shrugs, “It’s a solid guess.”</p>
<p>“How conform-atory to stereotypes of you, Martin,” Jon tuts, “For your knowledge, the teacher hated me as an individual but couldn’t complain in lieu of all the contribution I made to the musical community at school.”</p>
<p>Martin smiles sweetly, “And what contribution was that?”</p>
<p>Jon puts his lower hands on his hips and his higher hands on the elbows of the lower hands, “Lead singer a lot of times, guitar and piano too, so you’re dating a real talent, darling,” he’s happy to talk about accomplishments instead of the times he’d tripped on stage and that time he snapped a guitar and decided that hiding it would somehow keep the consequences from catching up to him.</p>
<p>“I don’t doubt it,” Martin shifts to lie down to cushion his head against Jon’s chest, Jon’s arms reflexively coming to wrap around him, “Sing for me?”</p>
<p>Jon chuckles in minor fear of the prospect of doing so, “Haven’t in almost forever now.” He remembers performing on stage like it was centuries ago – and someone else entirely, not yet self-conscious at all, and then remembers humming to himself when alone but never singing outright in years… “Really, I’m not weaseling out, I’m warning you.”</p>
<p>“Mm, too bad I don’t care.” Martin smiles into Jon’s chest and hugs him back, eyes closed and relaxed.</p>
<p>“And what do you want me to sing?”</p>
<p>“I doubt you’ll know the words to any pop song, somehow, I’ll name something popular and you’ll tell me you never heard it,” Martin huffs in good humor.</p>
<p>“What a shame I have near unlimited access to all and every lyric in existence,” Jon shrugs nonchalantly, the edges of laughter coloring his words, “Name away.”</p>
<p>Martin looks up at him, “Shit, you’re right,” he closes his eyes again to think, “The opening song of Attack on Titan.”</p>
<p>“I’m not singing that.”</p>
<p>“Spoilsport… Pick something from Hozier.”</p>
<p>“Wow, okay.” Jon focuses on Beholding calmly so that Martin isn’t disturbed where he’s resting on Jon, “Um… I don’t know how appropriate this is- okay, very, but don’t.. Um, well-”</p>
<p>“Is it Wasteland, Baby?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.”</p>
<p>Martin nuzzles into the sweater, “Let’s hear it, then.”</p>
<p>Jon breathes. He starts off more on a hum, wondering how quiet he can sing without going horribly off tune, “<em>All the fear, and the fire, of the end of the world.”</em></p>
<p>Martin chuckles, bitter and small, against his chest.</p>
<p>
  <em>Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl-</em>
</p>
<p>Jon stops and clears his throat, “Let me try again.”</p>
<p>“The stage is all yours,” Martin says quietly, drifting.</p>
<p>“<em>All the fear, and the fire, of the end of the world,” </em>Jon sings a bit louder, “<em>Happens every time a bastard falls to the Eye.”</em></p>
<p>Martin heckles out an unexpected bout of chuckles and goes back to listening.</p>
<p>
  <em>Happens grace</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Happens sweet</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Happily, I'm unfazed here, too.</em>
</p>
<p>The candle burns, orange wax and orange flame, Jon leans his back on the couch carefully to avoid his shoulders and holds Martin tighter,</p>
<p>
  <em>Wasteland, baby</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love with you</em>
</p>
<p>There are privileges to having four arms and he wonders what plusses there might be with wings. If anything, he can dig his fingers int Martin’s jumper twice the amount he used to before.</p>
<p>
  <em>All the things yet to come are the things that have passed</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Like the old enough hands, like the breaking of glass</em>
</p>
<p>Martin’s hair is soft and there’s strands of grey the Lonely had left him as a parting reminder. Jon sings stronger now, not louder, but more sure in his voice. Unused but familiar.</p>
<p>
  <em>Like the bonfire that burns, in worth, in a fight felt too</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wasteland, baby</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love with you</em>
</p>
<p>He finds himself pouring so much more of his own self into the words, like he never had on a middle school winter concert stage, singing songs they learned as a class and wearing a small bowtie over his white button-up.</p>
<p>Martin begins humming along and brings him out of the nostalgia of past times, back to the couch and the one he loves, really, in his arms. His arms and arms and oh god he’s growing wings and-</p>
<p>
  <em>Be still, my indelible friend</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You are unbreaking</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Though quaking</em>
</p>
<p>Martin starts singing lightly too and his voice is nice, if untrained.</p>
<p>
  <em>Though crazy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That's just wasteland, baby</em>
</p>
<p>The sweater swims a pleasant deep green, natural to Jon and he supposes he’ll need to acknowledge the wasteland they’re in like he’ll have to live with the insectile wings.</p>
<p>
  <em>And the day that we watch the death of the sun</em>
</p>
<p>He sings casually, like you wood at a fire in the woods, and no doubt what Martin hears is lower as he presses his ear against Jon’s lung cavity where the song takes its roots.</p>
<p>
  <em>That the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on</em>
</p>
<p>They’re content and safe, the two of them, yet deeply aware of the world and themselves as those who participated – even if unknowingly – in its becoming.</p>
<p>
  <em>That you gaze unafraid as they saw from the city ruins</em>
</p>
<p>And that what they set into motion without the knowledge to turn back around-</p>
<p>
  <em>Wasteland, baby</em>
</p>
<p>-they can find a way to turn back, this time armed-</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love</em>
</p>
<p>-with better understanding, because that’s what it’s about, yes, Jon watches the dancing of the flame,</p>
<p>
  <em>And I love too</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That love soon might end</em>
</p>
<p>it’s about understanding what needs to be done- to hells with Knowing. An ancient power may grant him that much, but understanding comes from elsewhere-</p>
<p>
  <em>And be known in its aching</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Shown in the shaking</em>
</p>
<p>-from within and from between them, and they can get through, maybe not whole,</p>
<p>
  <em>Be still, my indelible friend</em>
</p>
<p>maybe not quickly, but they can reverse it. He understands this. He sings and Martin sings along and it is a wasteland that he has sown-</p>
<p>
  <em>Are the death of all things that I've seen and unseen</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Are men but the start of all things that are left to do?</em>
</p>
<p>And thus, it will be his work to turn it back around and set the equilibrium back onto the axis of human midground,</p>
<p>
  <em>Wasteland, baby</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love</em>
</p>
<p>the balance between an all-encompassing Eye and the ever-persistent Stranger, the human, human, harmony of a gradient’s stasis, because, and Jon sings it like it’s survival’s hymn:</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm in love with you</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That's it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you all wonderful wretched souls for reading this rambling thing! WACK that this mix of crack and existentialism found a home and i love all of you little bastards for being there along the way~</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if youre so inclined, comment anything you think the boys could explore in their relationship or across their ... admittedly impressive collection of entity-affiliations... what with martin's /web and lonely and eye/ tags,,, I might just fuck around and write that,,</p>
<p>also point out any typos if u catch them , I'm here I'm queer and also my grammar is ,, uh , shit-tier</p></blockquote></div></div>
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